Susan Johnson (23 page)

“How was he shot? Was it a shoot-out?” Guy was still young enough to be fascinated with the drama of gunslingers.

“Nothing so honorable,” Empress replied, remembering the brutal, bloody sight of Trey and Flo that night. “He was shot in the back.”

“That’s cowardly!” Guy exclaimed in disgust, youthful idealism still prominent in his convictions. “Did they catch the skunk,” he asked in the next breath, “and string him up?”

“Really, Guy, don’t be so bloodthirsty,” Empress chastised teasingly, her brother wide-eyed with sensational interest. “And, no, they didn’t catch him, as a matter of fact. But they will.”

“How can you be sure? If he got away, they may never find him.”

Empress thought about the conversation she’d heard one morning when Blue, Fox, Hazard, and Trey had discussed Jake Poltrain and the possibility of legally indicting him for the shooting. The consensus had been that if legal means weren’t adequate, they would handle it their own way, in their own time. There had been no equivocation or doubts as to their “handling” of the problem. Jake Poltrain would pay, one way or another. What had shocked her most about the conversation was not the discussion of vengeance but the quiet assurance that revenge on Jake Poltrain was inevitable. Hazard’s voice had been eerily soft when he’d said, “I don’t believe in vigilante justice, so we’ll give the courts their chance first. This is supposed to be a civilized country. However, if the courts fail to hang Jake Poltrain …” The implication left unsaid was absolute in its certainty.

“This family,” Empress explained, “are half-blooded, and they’re very good”—she searched for a suitable word—“trackers.”

“Real Indians!” Guy exclaimed, enchanted by the notion of savage revenge. “Will they scalp him when they catch up to him?”

“Good God, Guy, you’re fiendish. People don’t scalp anymore.”

“The Blackfeet still do. Papa told me once. He told me he’d heard it down the valley.”

“That’s just a rumor. No one scalps,” she lied. She knew better; Trey had told her bounties were still paid for Indian scalps, although it was covert. In Deadwood, South Dakota, he’d said, not too many years ago, Indian scalps were worth two hundred dollars; and women’s were most prized. And then the image came to mind of the four men in Trey’s bedroom that morning, their hair shoulder-length, their sculpted cheekbones exhibiting classic perfection, their softly spoken discussion centering on Jake Poltrain’s death. That image put the lie to her bland assurance.

“Papa said they leave the reservations for hunts, and he’d seen a whole party along the ridge one time. But they’d ridden on. Papa said they like to raid horses.”

“I don’t know anything about Indians—and you don’t either, except gossip—and we’ve never been bothered in two years. Not once. So I think we can assume there aren’t any Indians interested in Clover.”

“And the other horse … the good-looking paint.” Guy’s voice rose half an octave. “Is that an Indian horse? Did you get that from the half-blood family?”

“It should go back. I just borrowed it for a packhorse.”

“When will you take it back? Can I go with you?”

How pleasant it would be to ride back next summer and return the paint and say, “Thank you.” She could see Trey again. But then all those women’s voices reminded her of what she meant to Trey. It was over. She could never go back. And after a few days he would forget her in some other woman’s arms. It was worse than she thought it would be. He was always in her thoughts. “I don’t know,” she said with soft finality. “We’ll probably never take it back.” And it was the truth. Although she used the word
borrowed
advisedly, she had no idea how she could possibly return it.

* * *

While Trey was checking the barn for the number of horses at the ranch, and Empress and Guy moved on to a topic less fraught with angst, Duncan Stewart returned from a gala hosted by the Montana Improvement Association, a group of greedy men intent on cutting every stand of timber in the territory and willing to entertain the legislators for that privilege.

“Your
intended
has disappeared,” Duncan declared, walking forcefully over to the liquor table and taking the stopper off a decanter of bourbon. Splashing some liquor into a glass, he took a large drink before he turned to look at his daughter, who had declined to rise to the bait. She was lounging on a silver satin sofa, dressed in full evening array, only recently arrived home herself from a small dinner party. Taking a sip of champagne, she carefully set her glass on the table at her side before she quietly met her father’s sharp glance and mildly said, “The news is about town.”

“No concern?”

She shrugged, and the violet tulle barely covering her décolletage bristled delicately. “Would it do any good?” she asked calmly.

“You’re the cool one.”

“There’s no great need for haste.”

“What if he freezes out there? The man’s barely out of his deathbed.”

“Really, Daddy, think. He’s half Indian. He knows how to survive in the”—she gracefully waved her slender, perfectly manicured hand—“out-of-doors.”

“They say he went after the woman.”

“They also say the woman sold herself at Lily’s. Do you consider that marriage competition? I rather think not. And surely, Daddy, being a man, you must understand the difference.”

Her father nodded once, cleared his throat, and silently wondered, as he did so often, at his daughter’s cynical grasp on the realities of life. “They’re out looking for him, in any event.”

“And I’m sure they’ll find him,” Valerie replied tranquilly. “Now, then, what do you say to a talk with Hazard, perhaps in a week or so? Obviously Trey is past death’s door sufficiently to take a wife. I think you should offer our little proposal to Trey’s father and give him some time to grow
accustomed to the idea. He’ll have to check our story out with Gray Eagle and Buffalo Hunter, of course.”

“If Hazard Black wasn’t so protective of his clan, this idea would never work, you know.”

“If Hazard Black wasn’t so protective of his clan, we’d have to think of another idea, then, wouldn’t we? But he is. Which is the point. And I’m very good at playing the outraged maiden in court. You and I both know how justice serves the Indians out here. They just hung four of them last month in Missoula. And those seven on the Musselshell. Was it over someone’s cattle?”

“Horses.”

“You see how easy it’s going to be, Daddy?” She raised her champagne glass to him.

The kerosene lamp on the mantel flickered first, and then the cool draft of air struck them. Empress and Guy both turned at the same moment.

A swirl of snow swept into the room and eddied in tiny gusts across the plank floor. Trey filled the narrow entry, dark and massive in the open doorway, his head brushing the low lintel, the heavy buffalo coat augmenting his large frame. His capote hood was tossed back, frost-covered like his lashes.

He was here. Why was it that she had this overwhelming feeling her life had begun again? Unconsciously Empress rose to meet him.

He stepped inside, his moccasin-shod feet silent on the wooden floor, and pushed the door shut with a casual sweep of his arm. “You owe me six days,” he said.

Empress’s heart was thumping wildly from the sight of him. The suddenness. From the low, husky, deliberately pronounced sentence.

Guy was out of his chair. “Who’s this, Pressy? Who’s he? What six days?”

Trey glanced at the young boy as if seeing him for the first time, then his gaze returned to Empress. “Should I tell him?” he threatened softly, his silver eyes in the next second cautiously sweeping the small interior of the cabin. He’d already checked the barn and had looked into the lamplit cabin before
entering. It appeared that they were alone, but it never hurt to be careful.

“What, Pressy?” Guy blurted out. “Tell me what?”

Trey’s eyes swept back to Empress, and he raised his dark brows in mild inquiry.

“No,” Empress murmured in a breathless rush, her own eyes pleading. “Guy, I’d like you to meet the man I told you about.”

Trey’s eyes opened appreciably in faint surprise.

“The man whose life I saved,” she declared firmly.

“With unbelievable expertise,” Trey interjected softly.

“The man whose family rewarded me with all that money. For saving his life.” Empress added with challenging emphasis.

Trey’s smile was instant and lavish; his arms opened in a languid gesture. “In the flesh,” he drawled lazily.

Empress shot him an exasperated look. His effrontery never ceased to amaze. “Guy,” she went on, mildly snappish, “this is Trey Braddock-Black. Trey, this is my brother, Guy.”

Walking over, Trey winked delicately at Empress, put his hand out to Guy, and said gravely, “My pleasure.”

“Good—good—evening, sir,” Guy said, stammering, hastily recalling his manners, his eyes transfixed by the enormous man with twin six-guns strapped low on his hips. “You’re the half-blood,” he declared maladroitly, then colored instantly at his faux pas and began stammering an apology.

Trey cut him short. “Never mind, Guy,” he said with a smile. “I’m used to it. As a matter of fact, I favor my father’s side of the family.”

“Pressy says you’re going to hunt down the man who shot you. Will you shoot him, hang him, or stake him to the ground with ants and everything?”

Trey looked amused, cast a cheerful glance at Empress, and said, “Your sister told you that?”

“Oh, no, sir.” Guy quickly came to Empress’s defense. “I just thought, well … being half Indian and all.”

“I like the idea of ants,” Trey agreed playfully. “Would you like to help if I ever find the scoundrel?”

Guy’s eyes opened wide, and he gasped aloud.

“Trey, that’s enough,” Empress admonished. “And, Guy,
don’t embarrass Mr. Braddock-Black with any more of your outlandish ideas.”

“Are your six-guns Colts?” Guy asked, undeterred by his sister’s chastisement. He had never seen a man who looked so much like a gunfighter.

Trey nodded.

“Custom?”

“Yes.”

“Pressy brought home a Colt for me, but it’s not custom.”

“Any Colt’s a damn fine weapon.”

“Would you let me look at one of yours?” Guy’s eyes were riveted on the pearl-handled revolvers, touches of niello barely visible at the top of the holster.

“Sure, here, try them on.” And Trey unbuckled his gun belt and handed it to the young boy.

“I hate to interrupt this masculine discussion,” Empress said resentfully, Trey’s ready charm annoying her. Everyone liked him instantly. It was galling. Not only women.
Anyone.
“But perhaps you’d tell me what you’re doing here, Trey.”

“I already did,” he drawled softly, his glance direct and warm.

“Trey, look, it fits.” Guy had buckled the belt on its last notch, and the heavy holsters framed his slim hips. “Can I shoot them?” he asked, excitement in his voice and expression.

“Not right now,”
Empress said tersely, and turning back to Trey, repeated in a hard, staccato cadence, “I want to know your plans.”

“Please!”
Guy implored.

“Guy!”

“Later, Guy,” Trey said quietly. “We’ll go out later. The moon’s nearly full. If you’ll excuse us for a minute now, I’d like to talk to your sister.”

“Huh!” Guy looked at Empress’s pursed lips and heated glance. “Oh, sure, I’ll go put your horse in the barn.”

“He’s already there, but you could feed him and bring in my bedroll.” He’d packed swiftly and efficiently, a habit he’d learned from his father on the summer hunts. A change of clothes, extra moccasins, the ammunition he’d need, all wrapped in his bedroll. “And I wouldn’t mind eating, either,” Trey said with a smile.

“Oh, we have
food
now, don’t we, Pressy?” Guy swiftly answered. “Pressy will fix you something, and I’ll help when I get the horse done. I’m a pretty fair cook when there’s food,” he added, “but until Pressy came back, we were eating oatmeal three times a day. With eggs,” he quickly explained. “It wasn’t so bad, but Eduard didn’t understand. Pressy sure was a sight to see coming down the valley. Did I show you my new boots?” Guy breathlessly rushed on while Empress died of embarrassment.

“I’m sure Mr. Braddock-Black’s not interested in your new boots,” Empress said, already too late, since Guy had hitched up his pant legs and was showing off his shiny new boots.

“They look very nice,” Trey said, struck with the sudden realization that he’d never had to consider not having new boots.

“We only had an old pair of Papa’s after he died, and well … it was hard when everyone wanted to go—” Guy stopped abruptly, having finally noticed his sister’s glare. “I’d better see to your horse,” Guy muttered, edging away.

“He talks too much,” Empress said into the silence after the door shut behind her brother.

“All children do.” Trey smiled. “It’s one of their charms.”

“He doesn’t see himself as a child. I’m afraid he feels very grown-up since …” she hesitated.

“Since your father died?”

“Yes.”

“And your mother?” Trey asked, looking at the twin portraits over the small sideboard.

“She died three days after Papa.”

“When was that?”

“Last summer.”

“I’m sorry. And that’s why I found you at Lily’s.”

She nodded. “And that’s why I wouldn’t let you renege on our agreement.”

“I wouldn’t have. You could have had the money.” There was sympathy in his expression and voice.

“I wasn’t sure.”

“Lucky for me.” His smile was lush and inviting. “And since we’re on the subject, perhaps we could discuss exactly how we’re going to arrange—er—the remaining days you owe me with Guy and Eduard around.” His anger was gone
now that he’d found her, the days only a bargaining ploy if one was required, if she needed moral justification for her actions. Empress wasn’t in the habit of sleeping with men, and her precipitous departure may have had something to do with conscience or morality. If she needed an excuse, he’d give her one.

“Don’t forget Emilie and Genevieve,” Empress added with her own smile, smugly brilliant.

“There’s more?” Shock, frank and explicit, colored his voice, but single-minded and resourceful, his composure was restored in the next moment and he said calmly, “That’s right, you said you had sisters, too, that night at Lily’s.” He wasn’t in the habit of dealing with children, was totally unfamiliar with children as an accessory to seduction. This would, he reflected, require a certain subtlety.